Yummy in My Tummy

The turkey is out.

Yes, yes, the one in the White House too, but I am talking actual turkey. Seb brought one home the other night and jammed it into the freezer. A gift from his employer so I assumed it was a decent 12-14lbs. Nothing extravagant. HA! I wrestled an absolute BEAST out of the freezer this morning. 20+lbs and rock solid. Our wee Thanksgiving will be hilarious with 5 pounds of turkey for each. Mick could do it, but he doesn’t really care for turkey. Frankly I am the only one who really, really likes turkey in our fam, which ticks me off because even when they’re not free a turkey is an inexpensive protein and I could surely use more main dish items that cook once and eat five times. Plus there’s sandwiches.

Okay. I confess…it’s really the leftover turkey sandwiches I adore. I have, on occasion, served the dinner absurdly early just to get it over with so I could have my first ambrosial turkey and cranberry sauce sandwich before it even got dark. Which, if you’re boring, raises the question of why don’t I make a turkey just to make sandwiches from? Because. Because if the turkey and cranberry sauce aren’t really leftover it just isn’t right. And if you don’t get that you have no romance in your soul and I am sorry for you.

This meal, and only this meal, is the one where I decide the menu just for me. Once a year I knock my own socks off with my cooking. It’s not a swanky menu. Nor is it complicated. No bacon-wrapped chestnuts dipped in foie gras. But it’s good, you know? The addition of roasted jacket sweet potatoes in the aughts is typical since I deftly killed any nutritive value with brown sugar and lashings of butter. (And can I add here if you’re one of those killjoys bent on making Thanksgiving dinner healthy you can fuck the hell off? Yes. Yes I can. ’11 ways to reduce your dinner to tasteless mess that leaves everyone unsatisfied and hangry.’ Piss off. People who won’t eat crescent rolls get no say. Especially at Casa Sage.)

I mentioned our ‘wee’ Thanksgiving up there. It’s also our normal Thanksgiving. Just us and MIL. Mick’s sister owns Christmas and I don’t mind. It’s fun at Tam’s when there’s a crowd. And there always is because Tam’s husband has SEVEN siblings, everybody has been divorced and remarried – steps, halfs, common-law, and ex-but-still-family people abound. Plus friends. The kids are ageing up and bringing spouses and kids of their own now so Christmas is chaos and hella happy. Or was. This year will be very quiet. But that’s for later, right now I’ve got the munchies and am talking about fooooood. And Thanksgiving.

Once again I am at odds with most of America in that my holiday won’t change a bit. Right down to the ritual of taking MIL home the extra-extra long way so we can look at all the Christmas lights that have appeared as if by magic while we ate. My ardent pleas that everyone curtail their get-togethers for safety’s sake echo back, “Easy for you to say.” And maybe it is, but I am not wrong. If this holiday is truly about being thankful for family and friends then don’t we owe it to them and ourselves not to be stupid and unsafe for the sake of ‘tradition’?

STAY HOME.

Please.

I don’t want to see a lot of this popping up on my friends’ feeds a couple weeks from now.

“LA, we were patient while you rambled about turkey, but if you don’t get to the election right now there will be cursing in the comments and since many of us are witches that means way worse than some coarse language. Hop to it, sister.”

Fine. You wanna hear my take on recent politics? Here goes…

• The media needs to stop. Just stop indulging the fantasies of a loser.
• The less than wonderful results of down-ticket races are a slap in the face. And a stark reminder that a substantial portion of American citizens are having real trouble grasping reality. Wishing is NOT a magic entitlement to stupidity, hatred, and the decimating of American law.
• As of today Nov 23 the citizens of Georgia have 10 days to check on their voter’s registration and register anew. Maddening and sadly unsurprising voter registrations are being ‘purged’ as in if you are a Black woman in GA you’d best be on it because the GOP has erased you. Please check, repair as needed, and VOTE in the run-offs. And thank you for saving our asses AGAIN.
• Thanks to my wonder nose I am starting to smell blood in the water. Afraid for their hides the cowardly jackals of the federal GOP are sensing danger and retreating in reverse order away from the charge of being ‘un-American’. Low level Congressional reps first. Trump apparatchiki are stunned but it’s dawning on them after Jan 20 their orange lord is moot. Ring! Ring! “Prime minister’s office.” Buzzzz “Minister, Donald Trump is on line 2.” “Bwahahahahahaha! Hang up. And please don’t bother me again with that useless fool.”
• Just as there was no widespread violence from the militias after the election I honestly believe the majority of the Trumpsters will slink away muttering and go back to harassing their neighbors over grass length and parking spaces. They will gleefully use power washers and chainsaws at 7:00 am and quote chapter and verse all the town ordinances about ‘undue noise’ if someone complains. Back to the everyday assholes they always were and not a danger to democracy any more.

This, however, doesn’t mean I am willing to forget or forgive. I honestly hope I get to say, “You lost. Get over it, snowflake!” Beyond my own petty gratification I am desperate for Biden to come out swinging. My little atheist heart still asks the universe for balance. Win Georgia, defang the filibuster, and take that slim but definite majority for a thrill ride. Ram cram through a flood of progressive legislation. Green New Deal. New New Deal. Wipe out student debt. Offer free secondary education. And true government sponsored healthcare. Demilitarize the police and make meaningful changes to their role in a free society. Offer support and other resources so cops aren’t the one answer to every problem. Put scientists in charge again at every critical slot in government and industry. Repeal or overturn, whatever it takes, and get rid of Citizens v United. Drive a stake of sane ethics right through its malignant heart. I’m willing to forgo term limits for effective campaign finance reform and putting a muzzle on lobbying. Also let’s board up the Congress to lobbyist tunnel forever. Thankyouverymuch.

The thing I’ve always found odd is how everything I just said is supposedly hopelessly utopian. Absurdly naive. The kind of dippy floof talk that gets one an indulgent pat on the head. Yet it was that very mindset – the belief everyone has intrinsic worth and is due respect from the get-go which has always driven social reform. Personally I am soul weary from having to base so many of my decisions on how much bullshit can I deal with that day. From nay-sayers, trolls, the smirking ‘devil’s advocates’, and indignant ignorant I am dismayed, aggrieved, but mostly bored.

Can we take a break from catering to cretins? Enough already. Trump lost. Let’s get on with life at the grown-ups’ table. Throw in some decency and mercy just for chucks too. Put climate crisis at the front of the agenda as well as the pandemic and let’s try to sort our physical world in tandem with all the other work that needs doing.

Hey, a girl can dream.

Floofy in more ways than one, ~LA

Comfy Eye Socks

My day started with a bing and a bang. The former- a text from my sister, the latter- my ex-husband crashing around out back.

Look, the whole point of quarantine is protecting oneself from other people and their illnesses. And those two? Waking me up? Ye gods.

The ex? The ex is the ex is the ex. Ever’n’ever, selah. Him I could put aside because if he needed to speak to me while he was here he’d have texted. He’d do his thing and be on his way. No harm.

My sister on the other hand is…is…gah.

One of the ways Gidget and I have always rubbed each other raw is about principles. I have some. She thinks I’m too harsh on people and I think she’s an accommodating asshole who apologizes for her ‘too hard’ face hurting the hand of the guy who’s just given her one across the chops.

I’ve gotten so much shit for being a victim and a doormat and (my fave) ‘a semi-professional whiner’ but I am the fucking Colossus of Rhodes in my family. Gidget’s Libra need to please and the amount of denial and dishonesty required to participate in her kawaii fantasy life is too much. Always has been. You know what? Even that I could deal with in short bursts to be decently present in each other’s lives, but it’s her insistence on treating me as if I am a psycho anger bomb that instantly sets my teeth on edge. Her tsking and jolly chiding that I not go off and that I should understand ‘their side’ and the roundtable amusement of everyone else is maddening.

I refuse to be condescended to by a ditz with uneven breast implants and a spine made of fluffer-nutter. Her life is a mess. I won’t go into it because why bother. It’s her mess, her drama, and I was already socially distancing as hard as I could anyhow. Then I get a text this morning inviting me to her birthday party on Friday.

Do not “Aw, that’s sweet” at me! Do NOT.

Is my sister’s party on Zoom? No. Is it a barbeque at a park with plenty of open space and fresh air? No. My sister, the brainchild, has planned a wonderfully intimate dinner for many at a hibachi steak house. Cousins! Several cousins! From Westchester! And Rockland! And even Long Island! By all means, let’s see who we can dig up from Crown Heights too, just to completely box the COVID compass from NYC. And now let us gather the multitudes at the ceremonial griddle table where everyone sits with mouths open waiting for spatula shrimps and breathing on everyone’s food! How? How could I possibly turn down an invite like this?

See what I mean? She’s an idiot. Who arranges a party like this during an epidemic? And yet somehow I am the wrong one. The one who is being touchy. I didn’t even insult her birthday coronafestival, I simply said no, thank you. Quarantine. Hope you have a great time. See you when it’s safe. Her stiff reply was basically this:

Let’s unpack a bit, eh?

Is my sister aware I had to forfeit my job to be safer during this contagion? The sacrifices my husband and son have made to not bring anything home to me and my shit immune system, crappy kidney, and glow-in-the-dark nose from cancer treatment? Possibly, but it’s always been impossible to know what does and doesn’t get past that sticky bubble gum and candy heart portcullis guarding her brain. Nuance is definitely not one of her strengths. Hearing only what she wants to hear is her superpower though. And this is her motto, guiding metric, and the level of gratitude one should apply at all times in every situation.

Certainly sometimes I have the “Fuck it, I’m taking the T” mindset of Rosie Ruiz. I wanna jump past the boring painful part and get to the goodies, of course I do. Yet giving up now feels like negating the last seven months. Also, science. My faith still lives in science. Enough to understand the long view required to get a grip on this virus. However, I’ve got it easy. I am not trying to manage a young family or a completely busted budget. Sebastian and I talk often about his career and how bleak things look right now. He loves background work and is good at it. Working on a set is all he wants to do. Movies, TV, video, all of it is on hiatus. Especially at his level. So. I do my best not to complain about how I am serving my time in house jail nor be too, too judgy about anyone else’s need to get out and DO SOMETHING, but I have a severe cost-benefit ratio and if you stray too far from the science I will get snitty. Really snitty.

I don’t know who that is, btw. If it’s mock-worthy please go easy. Thanks.

I packed a picnic and we went leaf peeping yesterday.

This is quite possibly the White-est pic ever. Those are Mick’s first non-obligatory khakis. Free will, free range khakis! And a billed cap! Another first. My honey the honky has taken my trip to oncology quite to heart. He’s on the inspect/watch/biopsy slog too. Fortunately we are of the age to don the badges of Empty Nest Suburban White People. We do not dick around about sun protection and wear un-ironic hats. And supportive sneakers. Our fabrics breathe. We road trip like Hobbits. Took-ish enough to go. Baggins enough to do it comfortably with good breakfasts and clean inns.

Mick’s on vacation this week. The weather’s gorgeous. Perfect for the kind of putzing around he’s been needing. A happy mix of chores and fun, and even a lie-in or two. I’m doing my bit with the meals. Not always fancy and not all piggy either. Respecting the athlete who’s torn around this end of the county twice so far this week. He moans, but I’m glad he has the road tires on his bike. The thick knobbly mountain bike tires lure him off into the buffer zone around Stewart Airport and despite the fierce lime green dominating his riding kit the buffer’s a dumb place to be during hunting season.

The pic is from last spring. The trees are still full and beginning to roar with color.

Same view. No Mick. 3 minutes ago.

As expected a 1,000 years of genetic memory rose up with the turn of the season and demanded I get gone. And jaunting around yesterday confirmed I’m good for about 2 hours/ 2.5 max. And then I want to be home. So much for putting my boots on the road, my face to the wind, and letting fate choose my path. Went to Rite-Aid and the post office? Yeah, I’m good. Adventure time is over. Bra off! Bathrobe on. A quick doom-scroll. Maybe two (or three hours). Feel ocular fluid begin to congeal in fire of moral fury and switch over to the soothing coolness of BBC Earth or that Welch guy who grows the leeks in buckets.

Managing Your Mood Through Mindful Media Consumption

First the kid and now the hubs. I’ve shooed them off but my attention is broken. Time to feed the animals.

Much love, ~LA

Fragility Is My Strength

I got into a fight today at the grocery and I want to get this down as clearly as I can before ego and writer’s brain make this into a better story with good narrative flow and me being a shining hero.

I was scared. Not so much to get into a kerfuffle but that I might actually slap the guy. That’s how angry and frustrated I was. My voice shook and tears gushed but I didn’t back away and I didn’t raise my smacking hand even though the satisfaction of giving that shithead a good one right across his smirk would have been bliss. Seriously. To backhand that twerp across his filthy-mouthed ugly smirky phiz as he wholly deserved would have paid for much of the last few years’ heartbreak and fury.

I am laughing at myself because once again I’ve seen I will lay waste when faced with injustice for others but find it so goddamn hard to just speak for myself.

He was breathing on the deli clerks! And the food! Other people’s, innocent people’s food!

I was at the deli having a nice convo with one of the two young women serving the counter. As she hustled up my order here came Naked Face. Conning his head around waiting for someone to say something. I hated to oblige him, but I realized yesterday that I am sick to death of hiding my fear and anger so as not to feed the trolls.

I am no longer ignoring ANYTHING! So what that it scratches their itch to cause liberal tears? Liberal tears are exactly what the country needs. And our righteous anger. And the pure scalding of plain old fashioned disgust. They ‘win’ if I cry and yell? So fucking what? Being bigger, going higher, giving good face, fuck that noise!

I am finished with acting like I don’t care. I am a rational, loving human, a functioning member of society, and a decent person. I am totally over pretending to be blase so as not to stroke the egos of these pissants! They want anger and fighting and chaos? Good. I’m going to fucking give it to them. In spades. So should you.

Enough. Really. Outrage and disgust and an absolute REFUSAL to accept any of this crap as ‘normal’ is what we ALL need to be doing. Look, we’re screwed no matter what so I say bring it.

“Can’t win against bullies. Don’t feed the trolls. Don’t dignify their bullshit with a response. Turn the other cheek. Ignore them and they’ll get bored and go away. It only validates them if you say something. Bullies love attention, just act like they’re invisible.”

BULLSHIT! Nuh uh.

I am calling them on their shit. And I am saying what I know is right. Not looking to score points, those shit-stains aren’t smart enough to score things according to convention, decency, and civic responsibility – they are garbage and I am not pretending they’re not anymore.

Yes, I am going to sneer. Yes, I am going to speak up. Yes, I am going voice my humanity and be honest about the pain I am in because of the bad behavior of some. I am through with pretending what they do isn’t outrageous! I am beyond niceties like ignoring bad things so as not to gratify the shitheads.

I AM ANGRY!

I AM HURT!

And I refuse to accede to the supposed ‘wise’ non-engagement policy any longer.

My tears are not a liability, my tears make me human. They are the physical manifestation of my normalcy. I will not hide them nor apologize for them. The truer question is: “Where are your tears?” Are you so lost in your gluttony of swinish behavior that you’ve forgotten how to be a person? All you are now is a pig? And you’re proud of this? Wow, that is gross.

So. Naked Face at the deli counter. Finally the other clerk asked him what he’d like. And I (completely and rightly upset) said to the clerk waiting on me, “She has to serve that ASSHOLE?” The nice clerk nodded and we both shot a sympathetic glance at the clerk waiting on Naked Face. That’s when he began to smirk. And when the clerk held up a slice for his approval he leaned forward and deliberately COUGHED. At the deli meat on the slicer. At the poor clerk. To get a rise out me? Absolutely.

I obliged him. “Yo, put a mask on, butthead.”

“Fuck YOU! I don’t have to do shit, you fat bitch!”

“Do you not understand science and the law, imbecile?”

“I understand you’re a dumb bitch and a sheep!”

“I hope you die. Nazi scum! Shithead! Stop coughing on the goddamn food!”

He laughed and I gripped the handle of my cart so tightly my knuckles still ache. While he had a fun fest of jabbering crap I felt my mask wilt under a torrent of tears. A manager appeared at my elbow. She asked after my safety and then spoke to Naked Face reiterating Hannaford’s mask policy and inviting him up front to where the free masks are. He refused and called her a stupid bitch. She kept her temper far better than I. I was looking over the manager’s shoulder and hissing invective at Naked Face. He responded with more profanity and coughing. To which the manager said she would now call the state police because Naked Face was threatening public health. He folded and slunk away muttering about ‘his rights’. Paused at the front entrance and raised a fist like Judd Nelson’s Bender and shouted, “Trump 2020!”

The manager nodded at me before going outside to make sure Naked Face didn’t try anything else stupid. The deli clerks gave thumbs up and nods and big smiles their masks couldn’t hide.

I stumbled off completely shaken but also fiercely happy. Found an empty aisle. I shook. Cried. Had to change my mask. But despite my upset a warmth flowed out from my heart. While I shopped the shakes receded and the warm feeling grew.

Honestly? I bought A LOT of comfort food. Ben and Jerry’s. Kiwi fruit. Maple-cured ham. Skittles. A six-pack of Stella. (And if you understood how much Mick loathes alcohol you’d know this was a Big Deal.) Sirloin cuts were on sale I grabbed several. Sebastian’s favorite goodies went in. (Hellooo Little Debbie!) I tossed in English muffins and really, really good jam. (It’s made with fruits and berries raised and jarred by monks across the Hudson almost exactly as the crow flies from here.) I know I tried to offset the ugliness with deliciousness. I did a good job and am smiling over the yummy meals I’ll be making for my guys.

Honestly? I’m glad I spoke up. Not that Naked Face will quit his bullshit or that I actually saved anyone from COVID by cutting off his big blustery fake coughing. However I did speak up for decency. For behaving as though others matter. I spoke up for common sense. And science. And that everyday people just want some damn safety and peace.

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Before the 'incident'.

A post shared by LAinNY (@lainny63) on Oct 1, 2020 at 1:20pm PDT

Love you lots! ~LA

“Oh Rocky!”

Meeting Tim Curry was complicated. (Story takes place some time ago.) It was terrible and wonderful to see how much he was still there, but he was stuck behind the physical toll the stroke had taken on his ability to speak. Frustrating for all involved. Spent quite a bit of time just waiting at his appearance booth while he was off for a midday rest. Not because there’d be a first-come-first-served scrum when Tim came back – the photo ops are reserved in advance and carefully timed – I was simply too pooped from being too hot. The quiet corner where the booth was seemed an oasis. Sitting cross-legged on the cool smooth concrete floor I eavesdropped and watched the stories go by and wondered why they call these events ‘Cons’ when they should be billed as ‘Schvitzing With Nerds’. I would pay double the entry fee if I were guaranteed a quiet room with comfy seating and the a/c jacked all the way. A VIP room for older women – ‘You Must Be THIS Menopausal For Entry’.

Tell you what, I will lose my shit if I see any kind of Trek convention before there is a real vaccine and recovery protocols that work. You cannot, you MAY not be a Trekkie and not ‘believe’ in science. WTF, dude. Science doesn’t care whether you ‘believe’ or not. If you’re so sure you get to choose which science is real then turn off your gravity. Go ahead, I’ll wait. I’d tell you to go walk off the edge of the Earth but then your mask-less ass would be on the loose, a one imbecile super-spreader event as you circumnavigated the globe. A dim-witted Magellan who went all the way around and never did find the ‘edge’.

Both of my kids are science guys. Atheists. Rather shouty about it as teenagers. Each of them spent high school wearing a series of ever-snarkier t-shirts arguing for rational thought. Alex leaned more toward social issues while Sebastian’s main beef was with religion. My younger son is revolted by what he sees as an abdication of personal responsibility. Seb needs neither the bribe of Heaven nor the threat of Hell to be a decent human. He says that. I say he’s a good guy because he’s got a good heart. And I dread the day he offers it to someone and they are careless with it. And him.

The skies are clear today. I had a bad moment on Thursday when I realized I was smelling a fire that was 3,000 miles away. Bloodhound nose recognized it even as I told myself it was a neighbor’s wood stove or burn barrel. Losing my sense of smell is my biggest worry about COVID.

“Really, LA? Over being dead?”

Fine. Not dead. But do you have any idea what would happen to my cooking if I can’t use my nose? I don’t use recipes! No sense of smell means no sense of taste too, but I cook my guys lots of stuff I don’t eat and without my nose…oy. I have a sophisticated and educated shnozz and it is boss in my kitchen. To have to navigate without it is a scary, scary thought.

I really don’t care for WP’s new editing. It doesn’t seem to offer any advantage to the previous set-up. However I am a slow adopt/adapt person. My approach these days is much less frightened, I try to think less about what I will get wrong and more about investigating, but I’m simply not impressed with changing things just to add a gee-gaw or two. I have a favorite knife and drink my coffee with plain milk. My alarm clock is 42 years old. When in doubt I reread Stephen King. My house is 110 and the rug in the living room is 25 years older than that. I don’t have a fetish for antiques, all my things still do their jobs and I don’t see any point in replacing them just because there’s a newer kind. Though the living room rug is getting threadbare. When the traffic patterns finally wear through I will take the rug to a binder and have the edges trimmed and bound into runners. I like to think that the long dead Turkish guy who wove the rug would be glad to know his carpet is precious enough to rework so we can still keep some of it even all these years later.

The combined catastrophes have stripped me down. Stripped a lot of us down. Our conversations are stripped down too. We’re offering each other a place of truth and trust because shit’s too real to waste time on putting up a front. Please don’t misunderstand! The pretty parts we put on social media are true also. Joy is good. Sharing kittens and crochet projects and pics of guys in kilts, yes please. Your kid’s drawing? Your boyfriend’s terrible haircut? All the life we put out there is good. And if it’s a bit curated I see it more as setting a nice table for company than it is being false. Dig? Yet it has been such a relief to shamble in wearing the same clothes for the third day, mild intoxicant in hand, and speak without editing. I love you guys.

The daybed on the porch is shot. Okay for a nap, maybe. I slept out there for three nights (cold air, crickets, trees whispering) and it messed me up. Gimping around half the day until my hips and knees agreed to work properly. The mattress is not sproingy at all anymore. Back upstairs to my tomb of a room. Trading murmuring trees for working knees. Such are the compromises of age.

Good night, dear ones. ~LA

Too Long

This has been rattling around as my go-to entry for a couple weeks and I’m sick of looking at it.

Premise: Randomly stop and jot down whatever’s in my top mind at the moment. I’ll be checking in with the Mind Husky too.

Oh, about something in the previous entry – the reason I am so adamant about finding the right song on the radio is because left on its own the mental jukebox is not to be trusted. To wit: current earworm…

I dislike criticizing young women. Joining the endless policing of everything they do feels wrong! But goddamn…vocal fry irks me so much! Take the Try Wives podcast. Please. I truly like these women. Talented. Funny. And listening for more than 5 minutes my stomach is anxious and my poor half-deaf ears are very upset. There’s something in the gargle and loooong drawn out words combo of vocal fry that makes me impatient. The drop in pitch is all I hear and it hurrrrrtz-suh. (Phonetic rendering) In some ways vocal fry is less irksome than uptalk, uptalking just sounds dopey. At least vocal fry with the lowering pitch and dramatic pausing there’s some heft and gravitas. But if everything you say sounds like this, uh no.

*Interesting observation: Before his transition my nephew’s vocal fry was maddening! His rasping pauses were like 70’s guitar solos. Endless. Now after a couple years on T that fry is gone. Really. Testosterone changes stuff you wouldn’t immediately think of. Since T his speech stripped itself of all feminine affectations and accents. He’s brisk, direct, and his attention span is way shorter with conversations where he doesn’t do 90% of the talking. Something he admits, btw. 

When we talk these days I desperately clamp down on all my unforgivably nosy questions. Not about anatomy because yuck. Imagine asking a cis person about their genitals. “Hey, Sally, is your puss one of those wrinkly ruffly ones or is it more of an O’Keeffe?”

Seriously, yuck. Having fought his battles to get here the last pain I’d put my nephew through is to demand he play compare and contrast of female and male mindsets. The whole point of transitioning is to be free and authentic in your skin, outlook, morals, everything. Asking him revisit and interpret from the perspective of someone he isn’t anymore is so unfair. But as a language person and a student of human behavior there’s so much I’d like his perspective on.

Speaking of teeth from the past, I am having a tough time about Date Night. Wednesday is the one evening a week when Mick and I are alone in the house and (more importantly) awake together. It’s our Date Night and was even before COVID. Formerly we went out. Usually to the diner or the buffet. In quarantine Date Night is homebound and that’s what is flipping me out. My terrible mother used to cook special date night meals for her various and multitudinous beaux. And between courses would call me from my bedroom where I’d been banished to come clear up and set out the next course. On nights when she’d fed me and Gidget a PBJ or a bowl of cereal, btw. I loathed the discrepancy of foodstuffs. I hated being both serving and scullery maid. Dig this, my mother actually offered me their steak bones to gnaw on! Like a dog!

I don’t need to deep dive into why my table is open to EVERYONE. And why I only serve meals which can be shared out equally. So having a ‘special’ meal just for me and Mick gives me hives. But how else to have a romantic meal with my guy unless I serve it here when he and I are alone? The world is closed!

Recently Mick told me how often he puts my eyes on. I was startled. WWLAD? Really? The idea of being anyone’s moral guidepost or guru upsets me. Even if it’s my own husband.

I am no one to emulate. 

‘Feet of clay: noun. a weakness or hidden flaw in the character of a greatly admired or respected person.’

Friends, my feet of clay go right up to my armpits. I know this. And it saddens and scares to think someone might toddle off and get hurt because of me. Okay, sure, nobody will rob and bank and insist I told them to. I am very anti-bank robbery. This I can be 100% about.

Here’s the funny thing – Mick lives with me and is quite aware of the real me. The one with the messy office and seeming inability to finish ANYTHING. How I always forget our anniversaries. And how thanks to five months in quarantine I’ve turned into Divine.

(Edna Turnblad is my spirit animal.)

And yet here’s my husband insisting that running things past the LA-o-meter in his head helps him be a better person.

I wonder if my aversion stems from not wanting any more responsibility. Probably. I’ve gnawed loose from a whole lot of unnecessary crud I’d encased myself in and I’m enjoying not being on the spot for every single thing in the entire universe. Helps not having a husband who puts me on the spot for everything as Michael used to. It also helps that my children are grown.

Do you think the people who moved into tiny houses regret it now? Casa Sage isn’t especially palatial but we each have space of our own and can put a closed door between us and the other two. For all that I adore people and am pretty free with my affection there’s a large part of me that’s solitary as an oyster. Without a private (and inviolate!) place of my own I go starkers.

I did go off my chump a couple days ago. Lost in a sea of fury. The magnitude of the dirty that’s been done to us! Not just Trump, though he’s enabled the worst of it. It’s the constant beatdown by the terrible ones. The ugly souls, the filthy mouths, the bitter hearts, the absolute shrunken poison spirits! And how these brats have dragged down everything. Everything is held hostage by their shittiness. I don’t kid myself that there was a mythical ‘Life was better’ time, at least not one that included everyone. But I do remember being able to go to the store without a haz-mat suit and if someone was blocking the aisle you could say, “Excuse me” and they’d move. On my last trip to Hannaford’s a guy with his mask in his breast pocket answered my request he please move with, “Hold your water, chubs.”

Right? So I woke up just crazy angry. The chubs thing was the final straw. The total breakdown of civility had done me in. I was/am so sick of shit! I am sick of it! I stomped out to the porch and told Mick I was going to the store and when he asked why since I’d just been the day before I hissed, “I am going to find some fuck in a MAGA hat and make him EAT THE GODDAMN THING!“

Mick was utterly nonplussed. The color came and went on his face. (His many blushes on our first date were charming.) Gawping he finally said, “Listen to yourself! Sweetie, no. Violence? Baby, I know you better than that. You are 100% Do No Harm.” I howled I didn’t care anymore. I was done being a schmuck who felt bad if she forgot to use her turn signal in a world full of monsters who think murder is the appropriate response to speaking up for justice! Germs were the least of the deadly filth out there!

Then I cried. And cried. And cried.

After a while of sitting quietly and holding my hand Mick made me tea and mopped my face. He chuckled when I grumbled he only stopped me so he didn’t have to face his buddies at the jail when he came to bail me out.

No pithy summation, just know I love you, ~LA

Thought Pond

Remember when Winnie the Pooh got stuck in Rabbit’s doorway?

I feel like that. (And not just from quarantine poundage fears of not getting out of my office.) Wedged into Rabbit’s front door Pooh makes amiable chat with whoever comes by but isn’t free to go search out companionship on his own. Between visitors Pooh is lonely. Me too. Since it’s right there taking up space Rabbit uses Pooh’s rear half as a drying rack for tea towels. Pooh doesn’t mind, at least some of him is being useful. Also me on the days I can whomp up the juice to do a bunch of meal prep or flatten Dish Mountain right down to an empty sink. Meh, I’m here anyway and it’s nice to be useful.

 

Mick was good to have done it for so long, but I took over the grocery shopping. I drive right past my old workplace. Still can’t. When I am properly inoculated I am marching into Shoprite and hugging the shit out of every single person in there. Old friends, strangers, customers, delivery people. Everybody. Until then I’m doing my marketing at a wee Hannaford a couple towns over. The drive is easy. I indulge in a frenzy of channel hopping on the Sirius always hunting for THE song of the moment and mood. Annoying to others so I relish the solitary drive. Finding just the right song pays off with a squirt of happiness hormones, even if the song is a weepy and I’m running teary boogers and singing along in the cracked howl of a crated puppy, I’m happy.

I meant it when I said my new grocery is wee. I am grateful for Hannaford’s niche strategy, their thing way before COVID. Their shtick is their offerings are curated. They like to imply Hannaford’s won’t waste your valuable time with a slew of inferior brands so they only carry a select few brands which are the best…duh. Somehow paying $8 for a mozzarella log is a status thing. To me it pisses me off because I know the same product is on sale every other week at Shoprite for $3.99. BUT the trade-off is the store I shop is quiet. It’s clean. Fresh stock is always well within date. And decisions are blessedly simple. Instead of 80 brands and varieties of mustard there’s 4. House brand or French’s. Yellow or brown. Easy-peasy. The customers are the usual mix of good, indifferent, and lunatic, but the aisles are never crowded. I’m a polite and patient shopper so I can’t really judge the crew except to say they are polite and any standoff-ishness is due to masking and distancing.

“Wow, thanks for that vivid critique of a grocery store I will never go to, LA!”

Shushie you. What I’m telling you is I am putting my physical and emotional well-being ahead of the ‘right thing’. My whole life I’ve challenged myself. “I must make the MOST moral choice! Nothing else will do!” You know why I can’t be bothered over what other people think? It’s because I’m too busy not living up to my own standards, thankyouverymuch.

Being barricaded in my house for five months has left me with a lot of time to ponder. I ask myself questions –

• Why is the MOST moral choice always the one that leaves me MOST depleted?
• Am I truly that much of a martyr?
• Why yes I am!
• Girlfriend, you gonna cut the shit now that you see this so clearly?

Gosh I hope so.

In my pondering I figured out the way past a sticky spot with my husband. And it was on me to change. I finally mustered up the courage to really trust him. Let me illuminate with an anecdote.

Last week Mick went to his mom’s on his day off leaving me to sleep in. Kidney pain had been a 9 on and off for days. I’m currently making a new bunch of fresh water pearls and the little dears tend to tumble into the U-bend of my ureter that Khan said he’d fix but didn’t. I was miserable.

Around 2:00 Mick calls from Mom’s, he’s about to leave – did I want anything? From my muzzy greeting it was obvious he’d woken me up and immediately his voice goes tense and annoyed. Here is where I’d been misreading Mick’s tone. Martyr Girl would hear that and begin babbling apologies. Napping! So sorry! He’d get really annoyed and I’d panic and down it went. He’s hurt and mad, I’m hurt and mad, neither of us knows why.

I feel dopey it took so long to put down all my defensive armor and really listen to Mick. Believe all the times he’s told me my happiness and well-being are paramount to him. My friends, Mick was annoyed with himself. He’d woken me, what an oaf. We’re two of a kind – failing our own imposed standards all the time. Here is where I changed the station. Bam! The right song! Instead of apologizing I said, “You are so thoughtful! How lucky am I to have such a nice husband?” It took a few repetitions, Mick was still yelling at himself, but when he finally heard me he relaxed. It was so simple without all my murky stuff globbed on top. All he wanted was a little reassurance and my order from the diner. My guy does NOT get his jollies making me feel like shit. Quite the opposite and I’m glad I understand this and allow myself to snuggle into his love. Finally.

Will I get hurt? Possibly. But stiff-arming my husband to preemptively keep him far from my ouchie places is wrong. It leaves a space for gremlins to get in.

And really, isn’t 2020 horrible enough already?

 

Love you lots! ~LA

 

I Forgot The Title

I am always surprised by how tee-nouncy AOC’s voice is. Not a bad thing, just seems at odds with how fierce everything else about her is.

My office smells wonderful. Did laundry yesterday. Saving the guys any confusion the rule is if it goes above my waist it comes upstairs and hung in my office to air-dry. My fabulous son once asked if this rule included ‘those giant granny panties’. I rapped back, “Oh? My granny panties are funny? Mental picture, bub…Mom in a thong!” That learnt him.

Raise your hand if you hate your chin/neck area in pics? Let’s see…one, two, five, seventeen, eleventy-four hundred…infinity. Everyone. So let’s call a truce and make peace. Double-chins, pelican neck, jowls – I’m currently rocking the whole trifecta. What used to be on my face is sliding under my chin and piling there like a bad sock that rides down and bunches up in your shoe. The dopey thing is I don’t notice anyone else’s. Except really doofy ones on purpose.

The other day Daryl sent me a couple pics showing me her haircut, the first since January. The cut was cute and it was so great to see my friend’s sweet face. Just down the road yet always out of reach. Then before I could tell her so here came the disclaimer and apology for her ‘old lady’ neck. Grrr. I wouldn’t care if her neck folds laid on her chest like an ascot, you know? But I get her anguish. I have it too. I usually stop the self-deprecating apologia text but I think it.

The thing is if everyone’s stuff slides down like tired socks then isn’t that normal? And if it’s normal why all the embarrassment and shame? Perhaps if I had a really noisy growth on my forehead that randomly let out huge burps I’d be embarrassed. And not so much that I had a noisy growth, but that it was rude.

So. No more apologizing. No more feeling down on ourselves because our human body responds to gravity and chemistry. I’m going to work on this. Feels like a necessary permission I need to give myself.

‘Let myself go’? The only thing I want to let go of is the last remnants of the bullshit demand I deny myself anything that isn’t about looking 30 forever. 57, bay-bee. Imma do what I want! #1 – I will never, ever don another pair of Spanx and hell yes I want dessert.

And get back to me with those arguments about my health when there’s no pandemic and the North Pole isn’t on fire.

Mick and I had a wee tiffy this morning about my being part of Wall of Moms. He’s scared spitless something might happen to me. I understand. I’m not wild about the idea of something happening to me either. I explained I was there to learn. In Portland the WoM is there to support the Black protesters and help guard them from Trump’s goons. There’s many, many takes and BIG feelings about purpose and methods and intent. Much of the feed is simple info on where and when and soliciting donations. How-to’s on tear gas and pepper spray removal. Woven in is this amazing discussion about white savior-ism, social debt, and honest anguish about where the hell have we been all these years? That last one is tough because I sort of thought I had been here but realize I hadn’t been in any significant way. This is a lot more embarrassing than my jowls. One is collagen and the other is character. Ouch.

Listening and learning is where I’m at. My brain and heart are delighted with all this activity. So many new ideas! Not all of them are great. Priorities conflict. The situation in the street changes all the time. Nothing about change is tidy. Nor is the inside of my head. Sherlock had a mind palace, I have a mind Husky.

Full of antics and surprises. Never know where she might go or what she’ll drag back. She likes to chase scent trails, that one. Heedlessly. This happens a lot.

I don’t really mind I’m on the roof, but I am really irritated because I can’t remember why I went up there in the first place.

I miss earrings. I know some people manage earrings and a mask just fine. I am not one of them. The mask and glasses combo is enough. No point in wearing ear decor at home, even on the rare occasions I get out of my housecoat to wear real clothes, I have headphones on. All day. With the central air broken my entire house drones with cooling devices. Window units. Oscillating fans. Ceiling fans. I can’t hear a fucking thing anyone says. (Same thing in public. Can’t lipread masks. I nod a lot.) My cans keep me from going bonkers from the droning. Plus providing sound on the computer. Of course I use subtitles too. But who doesn’t? Even if you’re not hard of hearing.

 

Love you lots! ~LA

Hey! Watch This!

I don’t do well with linear projects. After a life castigating myself and letting others chide me for my supposed ditziness I’ve embraced my curlicue approach to things. When Mary the Clown put up a 30 day movie challenge I followed her daily selections with delight. She and I love the same kinds of movies and she picked some real good’uns. I want to join her but in my own way.

Today is the first in a multi-part series in my version of:

Mary’s Many Movie Challenge 

The last movie I watched: ‘Maleficent Mistress of Evil’. I rented the first one on a whim. Not keen on Disney’s live-action money grabs, er, live-action remakes. But I needed something new and shiny and a zillion miles away from real life and from the trailer it looked like Aurora was no passive victim of fate, yay! Maleficent is an interesting character, so much inner conflict and spiritual growth. Angelina Jolie did a fantastic job. Through all the make-up and CGI she was still able to put all of Maleficent’s emotions out there. Remarkable. If you like Disney anything I think you’ll enjoy the Maleficent movies.

A favorite fantasy movie: I spend a lot time among the fey and fanciful, but that gloomy Celtic/Arthurian stuff from the 1980’s bores me to snores. Everyone is named ‘Gwnyyfddl’. The movie adaptations of those books are drippy. In all ways. Soggy stories, limp characters wearing tattered linen rough-weave, and between the mud, river crossings, and moldy castles by rights everyone should have trench foot. Anyway. I am a huge fan of the Guillermos. Director Guillermo del Toro and cinematographer Guillermo Navarro have made some of the most gorgeous films ever. Kurosawa and Nakai are my all-time faves, but the Guillermos are close. My pick for a fantasy movie is ‘Pan’s Labyrinth’.

Magical realism at its finest.

A favorite action/adventure movie: ‘George of the Jungle’. Yes, the one with Brendan Fraser. This flick is a hoot! It’s silly and fun and even a little romantic. Plus Brendan Fraser in a loincloth? Yes, please, thank you.

Uh huh. ‘Nuff  said.

A favorite horror/suspense movie: Not a biggie with me. I don’t like being frightened. Loathe jump scares. Slasher movies are pornographic in the true sense of something being obscene, depraved. Why are people entertained by cruelty and gore? Isn’t life hard enough already? So not being a fan of this category my list is limited. One that genuinely creeped me out and in no way seemed gratuitous with its frights was ‘The Others’. Tense and spooky and the pacing is excellent. If you’re in the mood for something of a mindfuck and haven’t ever seen this movie do so, you won’t be disappointed.

See? Spooky.

A favorite drama movie: This is too broad. What is a drama? Any movie that’s not a comedy? Or should I assume it’s ‘movies where the lead actress looks like shit on purpose and spends most of the film sitting at a tatty kitchen table making bitter speeches and gets an Oscar for it’ type of drama? Costume drama? Courtroom? Gah.

• Social commentary drama: ‘The Long Walk Home’.
• Costume drama: ‘Dangerous Liaisons’ Malkovich and Close are sooo evil together!
• Classroom drama: ‘Stand and Deliver’.
• Terminal illness drama: ‘It’s My Party’. AIDS ahead, be warned.
• Military drama: ‘Mr Roberts’.
• Meryl Streep drama: ‘Out of Africa’.
• Tom Hanks drama: ‘Apollo 13’.
• Best Melodrama: ‘Stella Dallas’. Just rips my heart out and stomps on it.

 

I can and will talk about movies anytime anywhere. Lots more to come. Thank you, Mary.

 

Love you lots! ~LA

Running Along

Ferris was a dick but he was correct: ‘Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.’

I have withdrawn to an astonishing degree. Only a small part is due to disinterest. Mostly I feel an anxiety that is monotonous in its constancy. It’s as if I am forced to listen to a disagreeable radio station full of clanging alarms and the same six songs, one of which is that fucking Lee Greenwood mawk – the official anthem of Rednecktopia – in endless rotation.

In my life before Mick I was usually an anxious mess but it sourced from my own screwed up choices. Out There was where I found my respite. Over and over I flung myself out into the world and was met with kindness. *(With the exception of a few British people I deeply offended by speaking to them.) (On Amtrak mostly, who knew talking to Brits on trains was this big social blunder? But a lesson learned so well that when I went to England many years later I didn’t talk to ANYONE who didn’t speak to me first.) (Which was really hard, btw, I am a human Golden Retriever.) (Speaking of retrievers when we were in college the ex’s younger brother taught their mother’s Labrador to sit up and drink straight out of a beer keg.) (Along with being cruel to the dog it was tough for us too. We’d show up after working the late shift to snag some beer and always ended up helping load the drunk, 97lb, drooling, farting dog into ex-BIL’s VW.)*

Over on FB many of my suggested friends are former coworkers. I do not friend them. It’s part of my withdrawal into this severely proscribed world I’ve built for my mental safety. I’ve been interacting on the internet in a meaningful way for 20 years. The past few presidential elections have been utterly bruising. In a sad way the political strafing never lets up anymore. (See above: Lee Greenwood) The oppression by the offensive, the under-educated, the ignorant, and the mischief-doers who don’t believe in conservatism but they bathe in our brokenhearted tears because tears are delicious to them has become so wearying I had to insist on making this space where hate and glee about others’ pain is not the spice of life.

I DO NOT ENJOY PAIN OF ANY VARIETY.

So much pain is dished under the umbrella of ‘humor’. I’ve watched conservative attempts at comedy. It’s the most tone-deaf heartless crap! They’ve tried SNL rip-offs and animated shows for adults but the gist of all the ‘jokes’ boiled down to racist, sexist, ableist garbage. “Then the crippled Negress with no arms asked for a hand-out! And I said, ‘Hand-out? You don’t even have elbows!'” Hilarity ensues.

Yuck.

Look, I am not against lowbrow humor. Hell, Shakespeare made fart jokes. So did Mel Brooks.

What do fart jokes have to do with friending people on FB? I’ll tell you. Far too many of my former coworkers are Trump fans. And fierce in defending ‘My Personal Experience Is The ONLY Valid View’. It’s how they formed the foundation of their disbelief in white privilege. Such an odd dichotomy made of well-earned pride in hard work and deep distrust of anything and anyone outside their tight parameters. My ex-coworkers don’t like being the butt of the joke more than anyone does and are always bristled up against disrespect and slights. But I have zero interest in hearing from Trumpsters. Even if I’ve worked with them and gone through any number of crazy holidays and even nuttier customers side by side. I am so very tired of being polite to the hateful.

Look, when I cast my primary ballot this year it was for the Biden elector. And an all progressive Democrat slate of judges, supervisors, and state assembly reps. It would have been regardless, but this year feels especially vital.

It tears me up to exclude people I used to interact with every day. I miss a lot of them. But (and there’s always a ‘but’) but I’m done. If you haven’t decided who you’re voting for already then you’re hopeless. What could possibly come to light now that would decide you?

And no, Trumpkins, there are no shades and gradients this time. If you are a Trump supporter you own ALL OF IT. The children in cages. The destruction of families. The race baiting. The flouting and outright disrespect for the Constitution. The emoluments. The bounties on American soldiers! The grandiose magical thinking. The insults and the outrages. And not just Trump’s disgusting antics, you own McConnell and the whole brain-dead dimwit brigade of the national AND local GOP.  You own the COVID-19 rampaging through the US and the deaths, long-term handicaps, and complete collapse of the American economy and the healthcare system. You OWN this.

I don’t want to hear any more ignorant hateful bleating from the Right. You fucked up. It’s been thoroughly proven our country needs leadership. Sound. Stable. Educated. Compassionate. Thoughtful leadership. A leader who puts people above his personal adulation.

We’ve ground our way down to the disgusting bottom of Reaganomics, capitalism and cronyism. It sucks here! And this stacked deck benefits about 26 people. Zuckerberg, a couple of Saudis, the Waltons, et al. Time for this lopsided cruel perversion of ‘freedom’ to end.

The times I have left my house since March 8th is still in the single digits. I am serving a reasonably comfy but indefinite term in quarantine. I would like to go out. But the world out there is scary and stupid and totally not fun. Unless I throw it all to the wind and go bareback, of course.

What? No mask is par with no condom. Both have life changing consequences. Health risks. The other people you buddy up with sans condom/mask may get sick and die. Whatever. And in the meantime before they are diagnosed your unknowing carriers may infect an exponential number of other people. People who might be doing all the correct things but they are going to get sick anyway because of “My free-dumb!”  you.

I was here during the AIDS epidemic in the 80’s, my friends, and this feels all too familiar. Like with HIV, I guarantee Big Pharma is working on a maintenance drug rather than a cure for COVID-19. Much more profitable.

Bottom line:

• I’ve yet to receive an unemployment check.
• Every doctor I employ has told me my peculiar kidney and auto-immune and all the other ‘My stress eats my body’ issues puts me in the high risk category. Huge surprise…not.
• And that I should stay home and limit my contact with others.
• Whee.
• I have ZERO desire to joust with Trumpkins.
• Can’t fix stupid.

I am sure where I stand politically. Nuance be damned. Biden or Bust.

Mask Up or Fuck Off.

Bill Gates does NOT want to inject you with nano-technology that will track your every move. You think the Earth’s power-brokers truly give a warm crap what you watch on Pornhub?

Wash your hands.

Yes I meant what you’re thinking.

Gads, the stupid is giving me hives.

Time to go.

 

Love you from afar, ~LA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brown on the spectrum.

To the mother of the sons whose behavior I complimented and you snapped at me and sent me on my way with my fee-fees all hurty.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry I hadn’t a clue about how loaded my compliment was. I am sorry your mothering experience had to be so complicated and pained. That instead of being free to beam and agree and be proud there was all this sideways shit you had to deal with and shit you had to put on your kids because they were brown boys in a mostly white world.

The pressure! The onus on you to ensure your sons’ impeccable behavior, a stalwart against sneers and blanket condemnations of all black children everywhere. Add in knowing that public misbehavior was dangerous and possibly lethal? My God, the weight of that!

My younger son’s behavior issues were legion. I sometimes make funny stories out of the most outrageous episodes, the one about Wolf and the Cheese Lady is a classic. You know what never ever crossed my mind when my offspring whacked the glasses off the cheese lady’s face with his plastic sword yelling, “Hassaaaahnn…CHOP!” as his big brother schooled him to? It never occurred to me the police might be called. That I might have to explain and soothe affronted white people and there might be hassle and mess and… nope. I apologized, of course. Profusely and sincerely. Now the cheese lady might have just put her specs back on and chucked a black kid under the chin as she did to my blond moppet, she was genuinely nice. What I’m saying is that police weren’t even on my radar. Betcha it’s a worry for every mother who isn’t ‘Barbie and her Precious Moments Baby’ as my kid and I were.

The clueless privilege!

My kid was fucking awful. Often in public and we left many, many uneaten dinners, half-filled grocery carts, crying kids and their disgusted frightened parents in our wake. Yet the single time the police got involved was when my wee darling dialed 911 from the school’s outdoor payphone and they responded immediately. He got a stern talking to from the fuzz and I got a phone call from the principal afterward. That’s it. No cuffs, no taser, no ride to the cop shop.

Do not even pretend it would be the same for a black child.

Obviously I’ve been doing much thinking. And reading. And more thinking. Been working out where best to put my oar in.  What do I know well enough to be a real help? And since it seems likely I will be stuck in the house for a very, very long time (that’s a different entry) what am I able to do from here?

This. This I can do.

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The history of police and POC with autism is horrible. People on the spectrum rarely do well with authority of any kind and dealing with police is especially dicey. Adding being black to the situation is lethal.

I have a lot more investigating to do to find where the local resources are and how best to put people who need help in touch, but it’s a start.

Find the place to put your oar in and start paddling, dear ones, there’s so much work to do!

 

Much love, ~LA